


The King Who Rode Away

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Death of Fingolfin aftermath, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 04:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Fingolfin goes to his death, Fingon is king, and Lalwen must support him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King Who Rode Away

Lalwendë stood high on the battlements, her hood blowing back, her cloak streaming out behind her in a wind that was unnaturally hot and dry for the time of year. It carried with it an acrid, burnt smell. She faced into the wind, staring out towards the north-east. They were always looking north-east these days, but, she thought bitterly, the view had changed substantially since they had first arrived in Hithlum. She had once been able to stand on these same battlements, and looking beyond the line of the Ered Wethrin, she could have made out the soft, rolling green expanse of Ard-galen unfolding before her as far as she could see.

Now there was no green, only a flat grey-brown waste, dust lifted by half-hearted gusts of wind as roiling storm-clouds gathered overhead. It was getting dark early, she thought, uneasily. Suddenly a flash of movement caught her eye. She watched, puzzled, as a tiny smudge of dust made its way away from Hithlum, across the plain. It was moving fast, she thought, for its size. She squinted, trying to pierce the oppressive haze. For a moment the dust parted and she caught a bright flash of something silver, a glint of blue… it was one of their own horsemen, she realised with a jolt. There was no chance that could be orc armour. But… only one? And he was going the wrong way… a sudden heavy foreboding crept over her. She rubbed her arms uncomfortably, at once conscious of the fact that she was not wearing her armour, although her sword was buckled at her side. She felt almost as if time were running out. When she could bear it no longer, she turned and hurried to the door that led downstairs, tripping a little on the spiral in her haste.

Nevertheless, it was not until she was on the steps of the entrance hall that she realised that something was very wrong. The heavy, fortified wooden doors onto the narrow ramp down to the plane swung wide open, the guardsmen outside shouting and pointing at something out  _there_ , beyond her sight. A gust of wind blew in throught the archway, lifting her hair a little and stirring her clothes, as her hand crept to her sword hilt. A male figure stood there, still as a carven pillar, silhouetted against the wide open doorway. She could not see who it was. He faced away from her, looking outwards and upwards.

“Nolwë?” she called doubtfully.

As the black figure began to turn, she caught a glint of gold in his hair. “Oh. Findekáno, what - ” then she caught sight of his face. He was pale with shock, and his cheeks were slick with tears, but his eyes burned, filled with an anguished flame she had only seen them hold once before.

“Lalwendë…” his voice cracked.

“What has happened? Where… where is your father?”

He opened his mouth, but seemed for a moment unable to find words. He drew a deep breath, as if to steady himself. “He’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“To… Angband.”

“Angband?  _Why?_  And why now? The defences will surely be stronger there than when you - ”

“He means to challenge the Enemy” interrupted Findekáno flatly. “He  _wants_  to be found. He wants to fight.”

“But…” her mind was reeling. “That is madness. It’s  _suicide._  Nolwë would know he cannot win that fight.” Then her eyes strayed to Findekáno’s hands, and the object they clutched, and she caught her breath. It was her brother’s crown, and Findekáno’s hands were clamped around it hard enough to whiten his knuckles and to leave red welts where the metal bit into the skin of his palms. His eyes followed her gaze.

“Yes” he said heavily. “He knows.”

They both stared at the crown for a long, horrible moment as her mind struggled to absorb the implications. Suddenly Lalwendë found herself throwing her arms around Findekáno’s shoulders, her eyes squeezing shut to force back the tears. “Finno. Oh Finno.” Then she drew back, suddenly absurdly unsure of how to behave towards her nephew that she had known since he was a baby, sleeping safely in her brother’s arms. She bowed her head awkwardly. “I mean… my King.”

When she looked back up, he was staring at her intently, searching her face. But his gaze almost seemed to go through her, seeing something far beyond. Slowly, the desperation on his face began to drain away, replaced with… determination? There was something familiar about the set of his jaw… then it struck her.

“No. Findekáno, I  _know_  that look. If you’re even  _considering_  going after him…” his mouth opened as if he were about to speak, confirming her suspicions.

“My brother…” she swallowed, the words sticking in her suddenly dry mouth. “Nolofinwë made his choice.” Her voice was hollow, but she held her head up high, her neck straight. “The people will look to you now. I will not let you get yourself killed. It is not what he would have wanted, and I will follow you and drag you back to Hithlum myself if it comes to it.”

"I could help. Maybe I could save him."

"No, Finno. No you can’t."

He was still staring at her, his brow furrowing. The he held out the crown before her.

“You take it.”

She stared at him.

“Take it, Lalwendë. I mean it. You would make a much better Queen than I would a King, and - ”

“Damn it, Finno!” she burst out. “You cannot save him. Do you understand that? And as for the crown, he  _wanted_  it to go to you. Do you think he would have…” she choked a little, and she could feel burning tears of frustration and grief on her own cheeks now “… _left_ , if he didn’t think you were ready?”

Findekáno’s face darkened. “I have had very little idea, lately, what my father would or would not do. Even less now.”

They stared at each other for a moment, their gazes locked together, fighting for mastery. Then Findekáno sighed, and looked down at the crown in his hands. “I never thought…”

“Neither did I” she said in a small voice, all her fierceness of the moment before suddenly gone. “Neither did anyone. Yet here we are.”

Gently, she uncurled his fingers from the crown, and set it upon his head. He seemed to unconsciously draw himself up a little taller.

“Will you help me, Lalwendë?”

“Always, Finno. Always.”


End file.
